


Rhapsody in Blue

by Sintero



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alien anatomy, Considerate Drax, Double Penetration in One Hole, M/M, NSFW illustrations, Rough Sex, Sadistic Ronan, Sex Pollen, Shameless PWP, Yondu being a smug asshole, sex in public
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-16 12:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintero/pseuds/Sintero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zandathe nectar takes everyone differently. For Peter, it draws upon his predilection for the color blue. </p><p>Prompt fill for "alien sex pollen made me do it" wherein Peter sexually assaults everyone and everything.</p><p>Chapter 1: Drax/Peter          Drax is supportive  (Illustrated-NSFW)<br/>Chapter 2: Yondu/Peter        Yondu is deeply amused<br/>Chapter 3: Ronan/Peter        Ronan gives back 110%</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drax the Destroyer/Peter Quill

**Author's Note:**

> Some authors create intricate worlds and characters whose hearts beat with the steady rhythm and cadence of a well crafted story.
> 
> Me? I write porn. :D

Your name is Peter Quill, and in tireless pursuit of the stolen orb, you dock your M-ship on a back-water moon named Zandeth, rumored to house one of Ronan’s lesser-known outposts. It’s a long-shot perhaps, but you have accomplished more with less in the past. The moon is resplendent in the sheer breadth of its taxonomy, but extraordinarily limited in palette.

Everything on the planet glimmers with a putrid yellow tinge that honestly makes you want to hurl. And while raiding the depths of the lavish, if overgrown, bunker you wind up crashing headlong into a gelatinous mess of a plant that coats you in enough foul yellow sludge that you finally give into your impulse and vomit messily on what must have been Ronan’s vacated throne.

Take that, fucker.

From that moment on, you find that you have to screw your eyes shut every few feet and take deep, compensatory breaths to keep from losing consciousness. This abandoned outpost was a waste of time anyways. You don’t know what was in that disgusting plant shit, but when you return to the primitive little port the locals tell you that the effects will wear off.

Or at least that’s what you surmise from the near-frantic gesticulation of their tentacles.

Whatever.

You get back to the Milano empty-handed but without further incident, rubbing at your eyes until your acuity finally returns. There must have been something about the yellow glow on that goddamn planet that went straight to the “screw this shit” center of your pitifully human brain. You shake your head woefully at the state of your beloved coat and stagger into the shower fully clothed.

The water is shockingly cold as it hits you, but you can’t see any reason to complain. Gelatinous bits of canary-yellow plant debris circle the drain in a circumlocutious dance. Staring at them reminds you of the old episodes of Looney Toons that you used to watch with your mom towards the end, when she was too weak to do anything more than hold you and laugh at the animated birds as they circled Bugs’ growing head wounds.

And now, if you weren’t already busy being maudlin, that thought sure as hell serves as a prepaid admission to the pity parade. You sigh heavily, fight your way out of the wet clothing, and sling it haphazardly into the corner of the stall with a thick squelch.

The delicate scent of soap and warm water pervade your senses and serves to ease the tension from your shoulders. All too soon you are forced to step out of the shower stall and wrap a towel around your waist, maneuvering through the corridor heedless of the damp trail left by your feet.

You round the corner at a zombie’s pace yet still manage to collide with the unmovable force that is Drax. And you can’t help but observe that his musculature is just as concrete as his thinking when you accidentally rebound off of his solid chest. You grimace and begin to murmur an apology when the most fascinating glow pierces your eye-lids and sends you reeling.

You’ve been so blind before now. The sparkling sapphire facets that consume your vision when you look at him are crisp and clean, catching hold of the space just beneath your skin in unrelenting waves that make your heart race and your groin ache. Goose flesh ripples across your body from the nearly intolerable dichotomy of the firestorm igniting in your stomach and the ice that permeates your lungs, making your breath hitch.

You lean into the hull bonelessly, hunched over and gasping. Drax steps closer, concern evident in every tense line of his shoulders. “Quill? What ails you?” he asks, voice heavy with concern.

“I can’t, I need…” you begin, only to trail off in wonder as you release your threadbare towel in favor of running both hands reverently across the wide expanse of his chest.

Drax is a mountainous canvas, absolutely drenched in a spectrum that you can’t help but desperately crave. That perfect torso is marred by a wandering series of scarified tattoos that resonate with discordant crimson rays and repel the subtle harmony of his multitudinous shades of blue. But, in their own peculiar way, the imperfections only act to emphasize the glimmering hue of his skin. There is something in you, an almost alien force, driving you to taste him.

Lost in a haze of lust and adoration as you are, you only vaguely hear the baritone grunt of surprise as you lick a line from his thick abdominals to the cleft between his pectorals.

Ice crystals explode across your tongue and fill your vision with bitter-sweet frost. He tastes like sugar cane, pure and sweet but for where your tongue crosses the red whorls that reek of copper and make your stomach revolt.

Drax grasps your shoulders, perhaps a bit more forcefully than he intends to, and holds you at arm’s length. “Quill, are you intoxicated?” he asks insistently, attempting to understand the source of your abnormal behavior.

But you simply cannot respond, cannot stop yourself. Oh God, there must have been something in that yellow goo. You’ve never been so ridiculously turned on in your life by nothing more than a color.

You grasp ineffectually at the swell of his biceps and writhe in his grasp, thinking of his hands on your body pushing down further and piercing into the core of you where you’re hot and waiting to be filled with his hue. Sapphire streaks and eddies paint the corners of your vision until you stare down a tunnel of blue, blue, blue.

Then the world falls out from beneath you.

You are so overwhelmed by the breadth of his bearing and the taste of him that you slowly sink to your knees and rest your head against his muscular thigh as you quake with the force of your desire. Drax hesitantly kneels down next to your huddled form and tentatively places a rough palm on your shoulder.

When you don’t react but with a silent hitching sob, he gently maneuvers you into a half sprawl against his muscular side and attempts to sooth you into a state of coherency with firm, reassuring strokes down your back and over the swell of your buttocks.

“Peter,” he begins softly, “what has happened to you, my friend?”

You sink into his strong embrace and effortfully screw your eyes shut to dial back the blinding supernova of his sapphire aura such that it is no more than an ambient glow behind your eyelids. The pain of your need still sits as a heavy and hollow ache in your chest. “I think something happened on Zanthe,” you manage to gasp out as you fruitlessly rut against his leg.

“Ah, I understand. You partook of the Zandethe nectar,” the Destroyer states sagely, nodding as he gently slips an arm beneath your legs and rises with you tucked tightly against his chest.

“The what, now?” is what you intend to say, but it comes out as nothing more than a thin whine. Somehow, Drax is able to decipher your unspoken question.

“It is not so rare an instance to mistakenly happen upon the nectar of the Zandethe flower on my planet. It is a powerful aphrodisiac that drives creatures to mate according to a favored spectrum. Amongst my race it is commonplace to provide an outlet for such misfortunes. If you will grant me the privilege, I will provide this service for you as well,” he states calmly. His rumbling voice flows over you in a balm-like litany of support and placation. You listen to the ebb and flow of the vibrations of his chest against your own and lightly trace the thin slivers of blue skin between the red whorls on his deltoids.

“Yeah, man, all of that,” you manage to choke out immediately before draping your arms over his shoulders and taking the opportunity to suckle at the muscular column of his neck, leaving a trail of dark cobalt rosettes. Part of you wants to curl-up and die from the sheer rediculosity of the situation, but the firestorm in your veins overrides your executive judgment and urges you on to find completion by any means possible.

Each long stride jostles you, making you cling all the more tightly to the Destroyer’s bulk. Blue inundates your vision entirely and envelops all that you see in a downy, azure cape of light and vibrance.

Continuing to pepper less-than-chaste kisses across every patch of skin that you can reach, you can’t help but marvel at just how hard you are despite the disorienting fog in your brain. Drax delicately jostles you to free one of his hands for manipulating the door latch, which allows your throbbing erection to brush against his textured skin.

Even that slight, unintentional touch lets loose the conflagration of lust and want that you have barely managed to restrain until now in an explosion of need so great that Drax has to brace himself against the doorway or risk dropping you.

You swing your bare legs up towards your chest and kick out with a desperate flourish that breaks the delicate balance of Drax’s hold on you and allows for you to wrap your legs solidly around his muscular waist instead. The position presses your erection between your stomach and the deep crags of his abdominals so satisfyingly that you throw your head back and moan your approval to the ceiling. Cold metal makes you arch into him further as your upper back is abruptly pressed against the bulkhead.

You never would have survived the trip to the bed anyways.

A wet dribble of precome lubricates the space between your bodies and creates a channel in which you can’t help but thrust, just to feel the coarseness of his skin. Drax lets out an answering groan, unbidden, and slides his broad hands down to simultaneously knead at the warm mounds of your buttocks and unclasp his tight leather breeches in the same motion.

A single exploratory digit gently massages around the ring of your anus and applies blunt pressure without actually penetrating you. It’s only then that you realize through the haze of blue-tinted blinders that Drax is every bit as hard as you, if the wet press of his unsheathed shafts against your scrotum is anything to go by. You were aware that he sported a fairly impressive set of hemipenes from the occasional communal shower, but to feel them like slick iron bands sliding against your buttocks is another thing entirely. The nectar roars with approval.

“How…gonna…fit,” you stutter, but are unable to choke out any more words past the curl of desire lodged in your throat.

“With careful preparation and dutiful attention, Quill,” Drax states huskily, voice dropping in register.

The answer to your unfinished question is likewise reflected in the tender caress of his fingers as he swipes a trail of viscous self-lubricant from his cocks with his index finger and uses it to slowly slide in up to the last knuckle in one torturously slow push. You take every inch and revel in the sweet dichotomy of pleasure and burning ache.

He leans down, the warmth of his proximity engulfing you moments before his lips do the same. He is not built like a human man, hard where a man should be soft, all rigid muscle and sharp angles beneath your questing hands. His lips do not initially conform to yours easily, yet the passion of his touch and the sinuous tongue that dwarfs your own makes this fact a moot point.

You moan into his mouth, the only vocalization you can produce any longer it seems, and press back against his hand as he introduces a second finger just as cautiously as the first.

He caresses your face with his free hand, dwarfing you with the breadth of it, and traces the angle of your cheekbone with his thumb as he continues to swallow your cries of ecstasy. Even the small part of you that is not consumed by the nectar’s rampant mating drive is wondering why you didn’t do this sooner.

However, all cogent thought flees your mind as Drax presses in yet another of his thick, rapturous digits and releases your lips in favor of biting down sharply on the smooth line of your clavicle. Gasping, you arch away from the bulkhead and even harder into his substantial mass, but he staunchly pins you to the wall despite your writhing.

The echoes of his teeth linger on your bare skin.

“Patience,” he orders softly. His rich baritone voice washes over you with greater sensation than it has any right to and the shudder it evokes shoots all the way down to your curling toes.

After what seems to be a lifetime of slow, mindful preparation, you can finally feel the blunt head of one of his phalluses press firmly against your opening and ease in unerringly past the tight ring of muscle. To be honest, you always secretly wondered whether he would use one or both cocks during sex ever since first seeing him in the Kyln showers.

He hisses and furrows his brow as the pressure finally gives and your body relaxes sufficiently to welcome him in. Even the thick coat of lubrication suffusing the outer layer of his penis is not enough to offset the slight ache as you stretch to accommodate him.

Heat blooms across your stomach and loins, setting off a cascade of nectar-fueled longing that grips you tightly and obscures all rational thought. The Destroyer pants into your hair and takes several long, lazy strokes, then stops entirely.

“Oh God, please don’t stop Drax, I’m going to die if you don’t move,” you whine piteously and attempt to rock your hips despite the futility of it.

“Patience, Quill. I assure you, you will not perish by my hands,” Drax states solemnly. At this point, if he tells you to be patient one more time you’re going to take the word and shove it up his tight blue ass. However, before he even finishes the sentence, you can feel his fingers massage your entrance around the girth of his own phallus, then press in to stretch you even further. Bolts of electricity shoot up your spine leaving pinpricks in their wake.

Is he seriously going to…but you can’t even finish the thought as the nectar crows gleefully in your ears like the sound of crackling ice.

With persistent coaxing, he manages to replace his fingers with his second cock and fully seat both phalluses within you.

The universe falters beneath the all-consuming torrents of pleasure and the burning ache of being over-filled. Stars burst before your eyes and you can do nothing but scream silently to the heavens, mouth gaping wide.

Considerately, he pauses and allows for your body to adjust to the substantial intrusion. You can feel him tremor with the pent up need to take, to thrust into you endlessly with all the force of a gale-force wind, but he doesn’t. The nectar is all but clawing through your skin and it’s suddenly imperative that he moves.

Without cueing, he begins to rock against you in short, controlled thrusts that only provide the barest amount of friction, but succeed in overwhelming every nerve in your body regardless.

He seals your open mouth with a searing kiss and finally begins to piston his hips in earnest, beginning slowly and gaining momentum as his fervor aligns with your own. Every sense is subsumed by a shroud of blue until you can do nothing but focus on the pain and pleasure and pray that you keep your sanity at the end of this.

Drax absently strokes your quivering sides and thighs whilst delivering thrust after punishing thrust. It’s not so much that he is concentrating on how to best find your prostate with each stroke so much as the sheer girth of him embedded in you provides no other option.

Moisture collects in your eyes and turns the artificial lights on the ceiling into molten sunbursts, still tinged sapphire from the effects of the nectar.

You dig your heels into his tense buttocks and the steel cables of muscle in his lower back in a vain attempt to pull him further into you. You are so close. Then, the friction of your sweat-slick bodies against your trapped erection finally sends you over the edge into an orgasm the likes of which you have never experienced before. The sheer power of release blinds and deafens you and you are all but powerless to the waves of pleasure that crash over you and pull you down into a sweet little death.

Drax follows soon after, his own orgasm wrenched out of him by the fluttering peristalsis, then the tight clench and release of your inner walls. Insensate, the two of you melt into the wall at your back, slippery with sweat, and simply breathe shared air for several moments to calm your racing hearts.

He finally steps back and stumbles over to the bed with you still staunchly held within his arms.

You reluctantly part from him as he lays you down reverently on the soft bed linens, saliva as sticky on your lips as the ejaculate dripping down your thighs. Normal color vision returns and you think upon the fact that the nectar appears to be satiated.

The mattress dips down next to you as Drax returns with a warm, wet cloth and tenderly wipes away the evidence of your combined release. For all his size and prowess in battle, you would never have suspected how gentle he is with you. “Uh, thanks Drax for the…you know,” you say, suddenly awkward, looking anywhere but at his face. You hear him grunt in amusement then watch the lopsided smirk grow as he lifts your chin with a single broad hand and places a chaste kiss on your brow. With a shy grin, you pull him down and remain in the solid cage of his arms until your breathing evens out in sleep.

The next morning, you sneak out of his bed before Drax wakes and find yourself able to more fully control your rampant sexual impulses. Not that they are gone entirely. You can’t help but to surreptitiously brush your fingers against any and everything blue that you find throughout the ship. Groot actually catches you in the act of fellating a cobalt bottle of berry preserves in the communal kitchen, which you suavely play off as a Terran breakfast ritual. “I am Groot,” he mumbles disapprovingly, but otherwise leaves you to your molestation of food products.

Apparently one world-shattering orgasm wasn’t enough to fully nullify the effects of the Zandethe flower. If this doesn’t stop you are never going to be able to live this sex nectar bullshit down.


	2. Yondu Udonta/Peter Quill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter can no longer ignore the escalating effects of the Zandethe nectar. Instead, he's forced to seek help from the only other creature in the galaxy that he can trust enough to give it: Yondu.

“I have never seen the Zandethe nectar take this long to leave a creature’s body,” Drax states gravely one evening as you both lounge in the warm waters of a suspicious but otherwise clean bathhouse on Knowhere. Sexually assaulting the pantry and various unfortunately painted electrical panels on board the Milano seemed to be the worst of the nectar’s remaining influence following your heated night with Drax for a couple of solar cycles.

But now you can feel it escalating once more, this vivid need to touch and be touched. Blue is about to lose its place as your favorite color if you can’t stop rutting against Drax like a horny teenager. Seriously, this is ridiculous.

“Well, shit,” you state forlornly. Silence hangs between you for several moments as you consider your options. Sighing so heavily that your shoulders turn inwards, you realize that your options are exceedingly limited.

“Drax, buddy, I think I’m gonna get in touch with Yondu, turn myself in. The Ravager’s have some pretty good medics, they should be able to figure this mess out,” you say, masking your fear in layers of bravado as you absently splash your hands below the surface to make the light dance on the water.

“Are you certain that this is a wise course of action, Quill?”

And this is why you like Drax. He doesn’t try to manipulate the situation to his own ends nor does he waste his breath futilely trying to convince you of other, even more impractical options to placate his own fears. He simply accepts that you’ve already put in the necessary thought and arrived at the only viable solution. It’s nice that he has that kind of faith in you, even if it’s misplaced.

“No. But it’s all I’ve got,” you respond with a grimace.

***

You depart the Milano without any undo dramatization and play the waiting game at quite probably the sketchiest way-station available in the quadrant.

Gamora, Drax, Rocket, and Groot see you on your way with empty platitudes as you disembark. Your beautiful M-ship rises through the atmosphere in a plume of exhaust and condensation that is as dark and heavy as your heart. Still you stand there, staring as your friends leave your sight completely, then linger a little longer as anxiety clutches at your chest with long, steely claws.

You can do this.

You can maybe do this.

In the end, your noble sacrifice turns out to be rather anticlimactic.

You borrow a communication module from a local vendor lining a busy market-street, then purchase a sweet roll and sit on the dusty ground at the port to wait. The syrup is still clinging to your fingers and lips when Kraglin touches down in a flurry of sand and beckons you to his own M-ship.

“Hey, Quill. Captain wants a word with you,” he says gruffly when you step onboard, his bearing warm despite your recent transgressions. There was always something verging on brotherly between the two of you. You only hope that you haven’t fucked that up.

“Good to see you, Krag,” you return, flashing a broad grin. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head with a smirk as you latch yourself into the seat adjacent to his command module. “Captain’s none too happy with you,” he states off-handedly. “If I was you, I’d be kissin his boots and beggin forgiveness as soon as you set eyes on im.”

You grin in response. Talking your way out of dicey, Yondu-flavored situations is your specialty.

The rest of the trip is spent in companionable silence.

***

Kraglin smoothly docks his M-ship in the Elector’s loading bay and beckons you to follow him down the gangplank. He silently accompanies you to Yondu’s command deck, like hell you need directions, and shoves you abruptly through the door with a mischievous grin.

You stumble and shoot a baleful glare back at your lanky cohort as the door slides shut with a hiss, only to be brought up short by a solid fist wringing the fabric of your neck-line and slamming you forcibly into the wall.

This shoving you into walls thing is losing its novelty, you think wryly.

“You’ve got some nerve crawling back here, boy,” Yondu growls as he twists the fabric tighter and makes you gasp for breath.

You whip your head up to mete out a dozen different excuses with your eyes comically wide and mouth hanging open, only to be completely assaulted by the most stunning array of blue laser lights that you’ve ever seen. Well, you may have been a smooth-talking, Centuarian-whisperer in your past life, but all of that practiced finesse goes out of the window when the depth and richness of his sapphire skin ignites a conflagration beneath your own flesh that makes all remembrance of Drax feel like a poor imitation.

In the span of seconds all of your indignation and past resentments shatter against the floor like so many glass raindrops and the world erupts into luminous fractals. He is a fierce ember, the heart of a new-born star, radiant in the glory of his spectrum. You want to tear the dusty clothes off of him and bathe in the glorious glow of his blue flesh. Your feet shuffle you closer to him unbidden, your restrictive Ravager’s coat shed without fanfare so that you may rub more fully against his skin.

Near to writhing beneath the onslaught of glimmering fairy lights and the all-consuming need to spread them across your naked skin, you lunge forward and press your lips to Yondu’s in an absolutely punishing kiss.

Yondu tenses in surprise at your daring, but is too stunned to do anything other than let his free hand hover in midair. You claw at the back of his coat in an attempt to gain purchase and all but crush your pelvis against his own.

Sparks of pain erupt from your constricted erection, but the agony is nothing compared with your need to be filled by him.

The nectar roars in your veins more forcibly than it ever has.

His tongue is absolutely glorious as you delve roughly into his slack-jawed mouth. His taste is crisp and clean, like Drax, but of a depth that calls up visions of spring waters and glacial freeze. You continue to devour him for what seems like hours until Yondu finally reacts and forcibly shoves you away.

Your eyes linger on the blue stubble that traces his jaw in abrasive patches, the reason for the burning ache that now pervades your chin and lips. But even those translucent, cobalt hairs stoke a fire within you that can’t be quenched.

He grasps you firmly by the shoulders and places you at arm’s length, raising an eye-brow. “Well, boy, if that isn’t the sweetest goddamn apology I’ve ever had...” he begins with a sly smile, as if this is all some stupid Terran joke that he’s finally caught on to, only to grind to a stuttering halt as you slam your palms into his elbows and use your weight and momentum to break his hold.

In a matter of seconds you grab his hips and shove him bodily into his command chair with a resoundingly loud impact.

“Now wait just a goddamn minute! The hell is that matter with you, Quill?” he all but roars and smacks you across the face. Feeling the vibrant chill of his beautiful blue radiance is like coming home, then in an instant you are left bereft of his touch as his palm slips from your cheek.

A guttural moan escapes you as you drop to your knees and begin to wrench his shirt up, heedless of his thick Ravager’s coat, and immediately place soft, nomadic kisses across the solid planes of his abdomen.

You chase the sweet taste of his skin and try to avoid the silver scars that obstruct your path. “Now listen here for one goddamn second! Are you drunk, boy?” he yells once more, voice hitching with every warm sweep of your tongue.

Why do people always think you’re drunk?

“I…should…be…” you manage to gasp between desperate lunges to reveal more of his skin despite the steel grasp he has on your shoulders.

The steady buzz of the dolefully swaying light fixture above you takes up a current within your rib cage and begins to pulse in time with your rapid heartbeat. Every moment that he is not touching you is a moment of pure agony.

He snatches you by the jaw, pressing firmly enough to make your lips purse, and just that small touch is enough to stave off starvation. “Tell me everything,” he growls.

Focusing on his red eyes is jarring enough to break your insistent need to consume and be consumed by the glimmering blue petals of light and sound around him. He methodically fends off your roving hands as you recount everything that happened since landing on Zandethe. Thank goodness you have the wherewithal to leave out the really juicy bits.  

Abruptly, the undulating waves of blue radiating from your former Captain wrench you back into the present.

“Zandethe nectar, eh? Sounds to me like you have a type, boy,” he drawls salaciously with the biggest shit-eating grin that you’ve ever seen.

You can’t help but to follow the slow path of his tongue with your eyes as he runs it teasingly over his blue lips. At the subtle sound of your hitched breath, his grin evolves into a predaceous smile that showcases the pearlescent sheen of his teeth.

“See now, the funny thing about the Zandethe flower is that it can only be found on one tiny shit-hole of a moon orbiting one tiny shit-hole of a planet. And somehow, out of all of that great big goddamn universe, you stumble headlong into it like a jackass!” he ends with a deep belly laugh that gives you the opportunity to dive in and tear apart the fasteners on his jacket.

“Knock it off, boy! So, as I was sayin, this nectar stuff is potent. It won’t let you stop until you get all filled up,” he instructs with a crude hand gesture as emphasis. You pause in your attempts to chase down every last sweet iota of taste on his stomach. “Filled up with what?”

“Fucked, dumbass!” he roars, slapping the back of your head hard enough to scuff your hair and unintentionally send your face into the hot bulge at his crotch. This is where the scent of him is most potent, the aroma reminiscent of an ice flow on the ocean. Crisp and sparkling light with a hint of saline.

“Oh. Why the laser light show?” you ask, voice muffled. You are too distracted by the firm line of his cock pressing against you through his pants to continue divesting him of his jacket.

“Like I said, you got a type, son. The nectar’s just making damn sure you get filled up right. ‘S some color-based mating something or other,” he states as yet another predatory grin spits his rugged face.

Freud would be having a _field-_ day with this, you manage to think despite the prodigious breakers of need crashing through you. “Seems to me that you have a hankering for us blue folk, maybe something to do with unresolved daddy issues,” he drawls lazily. “Fuck you,” you manage to snarl despite the imperative of the nectar. He continues on as if he doesn’t hear you. “Lucky for you, this Captain always provides for his crew.” He shamelessly spreads his legs and arches a brow at you. You finally lift your head and meet his eyes, the ugly, red depths of which are half-lidded in amusement.

“Well, get on with it. I ain’t got all goddamn cycle, son.” The moment stretches for an awkward amount of time with you gaping at him, jaw slack and brow furrowed, as your all-consuming lust battles against the horrified screech of ‘but its _Yondu_ ’ in your head.

Oddly enough, the voice in your head sounds just like Rocket.

“If it was just a stupid plant, it’s probably going to wear off any time now, right?” you ask hopefully while continuing to brace yourself against his powerful thighs and leaning down once more to nuzzle from the seam of his leather-like pants up to the scant inches of exposed midriff, undoing the clasp with your teeth as you go.

A put-upon sigh as he leans against the seat-back is his only response. Instead, he urges you on with a lavacious roll of his hips. You continue to place feather light kisses against the craggy planes of his abdominals and carefully note exactly which patches of skin shudder the most beneath your gentle ministrations.

You pay particular attention to where the scrape of your teeth along his sharp illiac crests makes him buck up into your mouth.

 

 

It’s the depth and weight of his coloration that fascinates you so. Swirling eddies of cobalt that glimmer in the wan artificial lighting. Yondu could have been literally anyone else and it wouldn’t matter at this point; it’s the color that ensnares you, not the vessel.

Every blue inch of his flesh glows in your sight as if he’s your privately crafted Adonis. The increasingly insistent press of his growing erection against your throat alone is worthy of worship. Moments later, the steady hiss above you turns from lusty to pained.

“Boy, I’m lovin’ everything that sinful Terran mouth is doing, but you better hurry up and loosen these pants before I tear outta’ ‘em,” Yondu hisses between clenched teeth. You glance up quickly at his furrowed brow and deftly release the laces holding his pants closed.

Before you have a chance to finish the task, the bulging phallus that you’ve been so meticulously coaxing to arousal springs free and forcibly slaps you in the face.

Yondu laughs long and hard, sagging forward until he arches over you and wheezes for breath.

Annoyed, you shove him back against the chair with a scathing glance and tear his white under-shirt cleanly in half in retribution, revealing a mostly pristine aquamarine canvas. Hot tendrils of nectar-induced need stroke the shape of your mind and wrap any cogent thought in a stranglehold of lust.

“Your turn,” he says as he looks down at your handiwork and raises his eyebrows, amused.

It’s frankly amazing that you are able to even understand him through the pulsing haze of color, much less comply with his commands.

Loath to break contact, you stand up and tear at your own clothing ineffectually, stumbling against the metal arm of the command chair in your haste. Yondu’s strong arms are there to stabilize you.

“C’mere, dumbass.” He bats your hands away and continues undressing you, removing layer after layer of your leathers with confidence.

You like that about him, the fact that he can read you so easily and always watches your back in his own gruff way. The final soft layer of undergarments slides down your legs with a sigh. You stand there for a long moment, watching each other consideringly despite your own inability to see anything but a Yondu-centric tunnel of blue. The air hangs pregnant with possibility. But ultimately the choice is simple.

Stepping out of your haphazardly shed pile of clothing, you close the gap between you and sink to your knees once more. The sharpness of the metal grate beneath your bare knees doesn’t deter you in the least.

His skin is sapphire luminescence, and you can’t help but to run your hands reverently over the swell of his abdominals and down further to tease at the thick furrows of muscle leading up to his generously endowed phallus.

His cock lays hot and heavy in the palm of your hand as you touch him for the first time, pulsing with the powerful beat of his heart. You marvel at the fact that your finger tips are not even close to touching where they wrap firmly around the circumference of its base. The breadth of it fills you with trepidation, but the nectar will have none of it.

Tentatively at first, you begin to stroke him in firm pulls. His shaft is just as firm and rigid as the rest of him, but a thin layer of skin glides and crinkles with each lavacious tug, lending an uncharacteristic softness to the feel of him.

A wet dribble of precome squelches through your twined fingers with an obscene slurping sound as he begins to thrust leisurely into your grip. The head of his cock flares wide like a phallic arrow point and a swipe of your thumb encourages the scalding hot seepage of precome that you eagerly stroke from him.

You bring a hand to your mouth and pull the taste of him from your fingers with a satisfying pop.

He’s delicious, salty and cool like the embodiment of the color he radiates in your skewed vision. You listen as his breath begins to come more quickly and marvel at the quiver of his muscular thighs.

It’s amazing to think that this larger than life figure, your Captain for god knows how many years, can be quelled so readily by your touch.

Head thrown back, Yondu threads his fingers through your hair and pulls your face down towards his rising hips. Stabilizing the significant length of him with both hands, you first run your tongue over the head of his phallus and suck gently at the meatus. Your reward is another taste of pre-ejaculate, to which you eagerly groan your approval.

Your desire begins as the faintest twinkle of embers on tinder and rapidly grows into a fiery gale that consumes you in its furious passion.

A sharp intake of breath above you encourages you to continue your ministrations. With long, sure strokes, you lave the length of his shaft with your tongue, paying particular attention to the deep indentations between the longitudinal muscles. He brushes your hollowed out cheeks with his thumb as you enthusiastically suck down what you can of his girth.

His cock hits the back of your throat before you even have a third of him swallowed down and you wince slightly at the strain in your jaw. Without prompting, you bob your head slowly and begin to pick up speed. It’s simplicity itself to add a rhythmic twist to your wrist with each motion, and to press your tongue firmly into the robust vein resting against your lips on each upstroke.

The Captain’s chair squeaks in protest from where he grips it tightly. Far too quickly, he brusquely grasps your hair in a fist and pulls your mouth fully off of his twitching cock. You watch him hold the base of his dick tightly and gasp as he attempts to hold of the tidal wave of release.

“Not so fast, I ain’t done with you yet, boy,” he says huskily, voice almost unrecognizable, and then pulls you up off of your knees by the hair and into a searing kiss, half sprawled against his bare front.

Blinding cascades of sensation that you have no name for tear at the space beneath your skin where it rests against his own.

The overwhelming force of the nectar’s mating imperative flares to life until you grasp desperately at his shoulders and move to straddle his muscular thighs, never breaking your battle of teeth and tongues.

Yondu makes a put-upon grunt as your maneuver yourself gracelessly onto his lap, but otherwise continues to stroke your tongue with his own, rough like a cat’s. He again grasps your jaw and forces you back a few inches so that he can more properly watch your slack-jawed expressions.

Sliding his other hand down to cup your testicles, he rolls them about loosely in his palm while keeping his thumb pressing firmly against your perineum, forcibly calming the whirlwind of your desperation into soft and vibrant eddies. You are terrified that, as intensely as he is watching your face, he will see the truth of you, the depth of affection and trust that you fight like hell to keep hidden. True, Yondu is a grade-A asshole, but your respect for him still burns brightly in your mind.

If you’re honest with yourself, and right now you can be nothing but, Yondu’s touch is everything that you want and need.

Lost in your thoughts as you are, it takes you by surprise when a thick, callused finger begins to press at the tight sphincter of your entrance. Yondu presses in forcibly and unlubricated up to the second knuckle and watches you closely as you wince at the sharp bolt of pain. Frowning, he yanks your jaw in for a quick peck on the lips, then releases your face entirely to reach into one of the storage compartments on the chair. The telltale pop of a cap echoes like a resounding gunshot in the small cabin.

“It’s always something with you goddamn, Terrans. Don’t even have the common decency to self-lubricate,” he gripes.

You think you shoot back an expletive in return, but you are so intoxicated by the feel of him that you can’t say for sure.

His embedded finger retracts shortly after and is almost immediately replaced by two incredibly slick digits. You can’t help yelping and clawing at his broad shoulders as a familiar burning ache spreads through your bowels at the inadequate adjustment period. Before you realize it is happening, Yondu thrusts a third finger gracelessly into you and bites down harshly at the juncture of your neck.

The pain is like a short lived star, vibrant and blinding until reaching singularity and collapsing with a sigh.

“Please, Yondu, more. I can take it,” you beg, heedless of your own wellbeing. Though, after having Drax in you, you probably can take him even as ill prepared as you are. The Ravager Captain licks a bead of sweat from your neck with his abnormally rough tongue and sets off a cascade of warmth in the pit of your stomach.

“I never thought I’d live to see the day you’d learn to beg so pretty, Quill,” he says, though the bite of his words is moderated by the softness in his tone.

You laugh breathlessly.

Yondu removes his fingers and spreads your buttocks with his lube-slick hands, bringing your body down so that his strangely angular cock-head lines up perfectly with your entrance.

In all of your other sexual encounters you’ve struggled with that initial moment of entry, but not now. Yondu’s phallus is just sharp enough to forgo the discomfort of blunt pressure and ease in gracefully.

It’s only when you realize that it keeps getting increasingly wider that you start to question the feasibility of inter-species sex with a Centaurian. You begin to squirm in protest and discomfort as you straddle his hips, but reluctantly calm as he pulls you down into a gentle kiss.

Ice crystals explode on your tongue at the first taste of his lips. The crisp blue flavor distracts you sufficiently that, when he tightly grasps the back of your head and shoves you fully down onto his behemoth phallus with one steel hand on your hip, all you can do is sit rigidly on his thighs and gasp shared breath.

A firestorm suffuses your bowels with pain so great that it sets your nerves aflame. But the nectar will not be overcome, and warps that agony into a pleasure so blinding that you feel as if you are reaching orgasm without physically doing so. It’s simplicity itself to rock back and forth on his cock, almost leisurely, to chase the threads of pleasure. Yondu groans in response, the sound throaty and sensual, and thrusts his hips against you sharply. The angular flare of his fully engorged cock scrapes against every surface within you so enticingly that you idly wonder if you’ll survive any further sensation.

But you do.

He allows you to rise up in an attempt to shift your position on his lap only to effectively thrust you back down by the nape of your neck. “You sneaky bastard,” you choke out against the overwhelming sensation of intrusion.

“I’d brace myself if I was you,” he whispers into your ear. Muscle and tendon bulge across his neckline and thorax like steel cables as he picks you up a few inches by the waist and essentially drops you onto his diamond-hard cock, rocking into the motion with each descent.

The links of the command chair’s braces groan in protest as he forcibly leans into them and slams his hips up to meet you. The resulting impact of his thighs against your buttocks sounds like a wet slap, which gains in volume and frequency as he begins to piston his hips in an absolutely brutal rhythm.

You hang onto his shoulders and try to brace yourself, but even so, your body snaps back and forth like a rag doll. Sweat flings from your hair in shimmering little droplets. He finally pins you down on his lap so hard that your knees ache and you are forced to take every last swollen inch of his phallus.

Blue sparks explode throughout your limbs and suffuse your body with the parasthetic sensation of pins and needles, all coalescing in your loins. Screaming his name to the rafters, you are swept away into the torrential flow of a hands free orgasm.

Each strong clench of your tensing abdominals resonates in the walls of your rectum and pulls Yondu over the precipice soon after. He comes with nothing more telling than a curled lip and a soft hiss.

You collapse bonelessly across his sweat-slick chest and watch the room around you rise and fall with each of his strong exhalations. It’s difficult to breathe through your enflamed sinuses and all you can manage is a strangled sniffle through your nose that does absolutely nothing to help.

Time passes and you ever so slowly regain coherency following the all-consuming nectar high.

As you do, heat blooms high on your cheeks and only now do you realize that you are hugging Yondu’s torso with tremulous hands, cheek against his clavicle, and subconsciously pressing your thighs tightly against him, taking comfort in his touch.

Everything in your posture screams reluctant affection and you can tell by the broad smile and the hungry gleam in his eyes that Yondu is overwhelmingly cognizant of your body’s every instinctual tell.

The smug bastard probably knows that the nectar is dormant right now, too.

Moaning in defeat, you slowly push up off of his shoulders into tall kneeling and attempt to climb down off of the bulky chair without stumbling.

The puddle of come dripping down his stomach and across his still-clothed thighs makes him look debauched, but no less in control. His shit-eating grin never falters as he watches you dress slowly and in silence.

Every muscle in your body aches and ‘tender’ is an understatement for how your thoroughly-plowed ass feels right now.

“So, boy, you just gonna fuck and run, ain’t even gonna stick around for the spooning? I know I taught you better than that,” Yondu throws at you as he rises languidly from his chair and shimmies his hips in order to reposition his softening cock back into his stained pants. He winces, but otherwise makes no further attempts to adjust himself.

“Ah well. And here I thought I was gonna have to start Kraglin planning the nuptials.”

It takes everything in you to lift your head and level a scathing glare at the Centaurian, but you rally to the cause admirably.

***

Five shots of Xandarian Gin later, you are able to focus on the task at hand. Namely not jumping Yondu’s bones again, and figuring out a way to pay for the decades of intensive therapy that it’s going to take to erase the memory of how amazingly perfect your stand-in father-figure’s dick is. This is seven different kinds of fucked up, you think with a grimace.

It really doesn’t help that behind you Yondu is currently telling the rest of the crew an exaggerated play by play, embellished reenactment and all.

How is this your life?

Luckily, Kraglin plops heavily into the chair next to you, a mass of gangly, awkward limbs. “So Peter,” he yells over the din of roaring laughter. “I knew a guy who’d gotten into that nectar stuff before. He just got some colored goggles or somethin’. Worked like a charm,” he says matter-of-factly, though you can hear the smile that he’s trying to hide as Yondu begins retelling the part about the stomach licking.

You can hear the bastard acting out your own parts in this debacle with a high falsetto voice.

Maybe you should just end your misery now and jump out of the airlock. But then Kraglin’s words finally sink in and your jaw drops at the epiphany.

Fuck going to the medics, this is perfect!

If you hadn’t already used up your reserve of unwarranted sexual advances today you would have kissed him. Instead, you shoot up from your stool with a whoop and awkwardly maneuver around the sticky table top with an exclamation of “You’re a genius, Krag!” which promptly sends you tripping over your own feet and tumbling face first into the ground.

Seriously, fuck your life.

***

A set of green spectrum goggles drains your credits an almost embarrassing amount at the next space port, but you figure that any cost is worth keeping you from jumping the next blue jack-ass that crosses your path.

Yondu for fuck’s sake...what were you thinking?

Though, it seems that your social faux pas was a blessing in disguise in that it put the Centaurian in such good spirits that he retracted the bounty on your head.

“Once you get your shit straightened out, you call me up any time, boy,” Yondu says with an exaggerated wink, then turns and walks back to his ship with a swagger that makes you want to throw something at his retreating back.

You manage to find a fist-sized rock and hurl it with all of your strength, only to come up short. He glances at the skidding projectile and back at you with a devilish grin that goes straight to your dick.

Holy shit you have a problem.

The emerald-tinted goggles are on your face in record time.

“You better not waste no time before jumping on a blue cock, Quill. Zandethe nectar will kill ya if you don’t give your body what it needs,” he calls back at you with a casual wave in parting.

“Jesus, you couldn’t have told me that part sooner?!” you scream at his retreating back.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could watch Peter and Yondu snark at each other all day long.
> 
> And I feel like there was a missed opportunity here with the yaka arrow. Hahaha


	3. Ronan the Accuser/Peter Quill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter isn't the only one with botanical troubles.

You meet back up with your motley assortment of friends and, with the Ravager’s assistance, manage to piece together more than twelve percent of a plan to board Ronan’s _Dark Aster_ and circumvent the destruction of Xandar.

By the grace of whichever higher powers exist, you manage to pull it off with only minor setbacks, grinning maniacally as you watch Ronan the Accuser take the full brunt of the Hadron Enforcer to the chest.

Except that apparently whichever higher powers exist were just fucking with you and Ronan survives the blast with nothing more than a blemish on his ancient armor.

Can the universe please just give you a break for once?

Events happen quickly after that and, following an adrenaline filled plummet to the Xandarian surface, you choke on suspended motes of dust as you force your battered limbs to slowly push up off of the ground into kneeling. Blood meanders casually across your brow and drips onto your hands in quiet little patters.

You stare at the shock of crimson and feel your stomach start to roil as you realize that your empty goggle frames are hanging limply off of one ear. The impact must have destroyed them, you think, as you take them in hand and stare at the shards of green glass that remain embedded in the rim as if in mockery.

There is no way that this will end well for you.

And, as if your saturnine thoughts summon him, Ronan steps out from the wreckage of his craft with a subtle grace that belies his warrior nature. “Don’t look up, don’t look up,” you mutter to yourself frantically from where you’re intensely staring at the disgusting, yellow-tinged ground and completely ignoring the discomfort of sharp rocks stabbing into your hands and knees.

The world around you hangs heavy and silent but for the steady crackle of electrical fires and the low moans of pain emanating from your teammates.

Finally, the creak of leather and the crunching of heavy boots on gravel grows close enough for you to catch a glimpse of the fanatical Kree’s dust-covered armor in your periphery. “Citizens of Xandar, behold…” Ronan’s baritone voice booms. “Your Guardians of the Galaxy!” The Kree’s pronouncement is unexpected and jarringly loud in the pregnant pause, startling you enough that your head snaps up out of instinct.

Oh hell, here it goes.

The nectar inundating your blood rises up and beats at your rib cage so viciously that you think it may tear right out of you. The craving that you experienced with Drax and Yondu is nothing in comparison. This all-consuming drive sends you hurtling past the event horizon, its pull so great as to make escape impossible

“What fruit have they wrought,” he continues, only for the building diatribe to be cut off abruptly in a choked grunt as he scans his audience and comes to glance down and meet your gaze. His demeanor deflates and his confident smirk devolves into an expression of shocked disbelief, then absolute horror.

“This cannot be,” he stutters, slowly lowering his universal weapon and finally allowing it to slip from his lax fingers. The muffled impact breaks your trance and sets you in motion. Rising to your feet as if in slow motion, you stride towards him purposefully. He meets you halfway and runs his calloused fingers through your hair gently, as if you’re a favored pet, then grips tightly and pulls you against the breadth of his thickly-armored chest.

He’s a magnificent deity, resplendent in his mantel of power and grace. You want nothing more than to fall to your knees and prostrate yourself at the altar of his lust. To hold the hymn of his name heavy on your tongue.

And apparently you say all of this out loud.

Fantastic.

“This cannot be,” Ronan repeats, voice thick with a combination of budding arousal and blatant disgust. “I eradicated every remaining specimen of the Zandethe plant in the cosmos. This is not possible.”

Apparently you’re not that only unlucky bastard with botanical troubles, if Ronan’s glazed expression is anything to go by. You wonder what color spectrum he is watching thrum from your own skin.

“You mean I’m not the only one who ran into the freaky sex flower?” you ask, absently calculating whether or not you will be able to reach his lips if you rise up onto your toes.

He stares down at you incredulously. “Foolish Terran, it’s only when two individuals make contact with the same Zandethe plant that the mating imperative is initiated in force.”

“Okay, for one, the name is Peter Quill, better known as Starlord. Two, you’re the big bad Accuser who decided to build an outpost in the middle of a botanical fuck-fest where any poor, unsuspecting Terran may run into it. It’s your own damn fault and you really need to shut up and kiss me now,” you state petulantly, wondering whether the sheer look of fury twisting his handsome face into an eldritch horror means that you’re about to get killed or fucked.

Before Ronan can react, you promptly grasp his face with both hands and pull him down in order to devour the stunning blue glow from his lips. The most telling part of this strange tableau is that he goes without protest.

The blooming warmth in your chest only reaffirms the rightness of this moment as the culmination of your frantic, if half-assed, search for completion. Even the knowledge that the nectar feels as if a homicidal Kree fanatic is your ideal sexual partner can’t chase away the satisfaction of swiping your tongue unerringly against his own.

Ronan tastes like the vast echoes of the birth of the universe.

Initially hesitant, the Accuser takes a moment to figure out the purpose of your strange oral behavior. He then presses the advantage of his height and brutalizes your mouth with his own sinuous tongue as if it’s merely another battle to be won.

All of the remaining blood in your body immediately rushes into your loins, leaving you lightheaded and euphoric. Reluctantly breaking the sloppy kiss, you find that you can’t fight the compulsion to tear at the complex clasps of Ronan’s pectoral plates, desperate to reveal the pristine blue skin that you can’t help but crave.

The nectar sings in your blood and fills you with a longing so voracious that you are all but panting with it.

As the last clasp gives way you crow in triumph and fling the armor, loin-flap and all, behind you where it spins in the air like a drunken Frisbee. You are rewarded with the most pristine stretch of bare chest and abdominals that you’ve ever seen. He glimmers in the sunlight, an aura of blue so deep that you think you can see the expanse of the galaxy framed within his pectorals.

Ronan arches his muscular neck and pulls you in close enough to press against his solid body from chest to thighs. “I am going to take you so thoroughly and with such vigor that your ancestors will feel it” he states gravely, then spins you around and shoves you full force into a pile of remnants from the Dark Aster. Your stomach impacts with the rounded lip of a large plateau of twisted debris and you gracelessly sprawl across the pile with a forced expulsion of air that sounds like “finally.”

The sheets of matt-polished metal are conveniently table-height, you think.

Gravel crunches behind you and you can hear the rustle of leather as clearly as a pulse-pistol shot. “Prepare yourself, mortal,” he all but growls, voice dropping in register.

The hot red flush of your cheeks blooms bright against your pale skin, but you still find the courage to turn and meet his vivid gaze over your shoulder. Lips parted and chest heaving, he looks just as wrecked as you.

Ronan scowls and abruptly shoves your head down to rest on the hot metal surface as well. Apparently he isn’t so much a fan of the bedroom eyes trope.

His enormous hands absolutely engulf you as they stroke from the back of your head, to the small of your back, and further down to firmly encompass your buttocks through your clothing. The push and pull of his brusque fingertips kneading your leather-clad buttocks is enough to make your jaw drop with a delicate “oh.”

You strain to twist around and press your hand between your heated bodies, ultimately succeeding in palming the significant girth of his phallus through his leathers. It pulses powerfully in your hand. “You would dare presume?” he asks rhetorically with a dangerous undercurrent of challenge in his gravelly voice.

He wrenches your hand off of his clothed cock and presses your arm against your back instead. Pain suffuses your shoulder joint from the rough treatment, but the nectar is blurring the line between pain and pleasure so substantially that you cannot separate the two. Instead, the arousal howls in your veins, begging for a taste of his bare skin.

Ronan pauses while you squirm ineffectually in an attempt to kick off your boots and ease your pants down. He snorts in derision and simply tears the leathers from your body.

He leaves one hand pressing against the small of your back, more a prompt to remain still than anything, and takes a moment to unlace his pants and unsheathe his own erect cock. The force with which you hear it smack against his taunt abdomen makes your mouth water in anticipation.

“Holy crap, what are you waiting for?” you pant as you writhe beneath him.

He stays staunchly silent despite the palpable tension between you.

Suddenly, his body is a heavy weight against your back, frigidly cold in direct juxtaposition to the scorching, sunbaked metal digging into chest. The icy chill of his front draped against your back and buttocks is the only thing that keeps you from arching away. Perfunctorily, he pulls you to him by your waist and rubs the impressive length of his cock along the cleft of your buttocks. Apparently his species is the type to self-lubricate if the slick feel of his passage is anything to go by.

To be honest, you already knew that Ronan would be no wilting violet in the sack. What you don’t expect is the penultimate level of arousal to which his rough manner takes you in two seconds flat, even as he presses down upon you and whispers empty threats against the damp curls of hair at the base of your neck.

Too soon, you feel building pressure against your anus as he lines up the head of his weeping phallus with your entrance.

“Wait,” you almost shout in panic. “You can’t just shove in without…” But your frantic petition goes unheeded.

The prodigious amounts of lubricant cannot ease the way sufficiently, cannot make allowance for sloppy preparation.

Regardless, he ignores your plea in favor of spreading your thighs to further accommodate him. You wince and clench your teeth in anticipation of the pain as he forces the wide flare of his head past the tight ring of your lubricated anus with steadily building pressure. It takes every ounce of willpower that you possess not to buck him off. Luckily, the nectar chooses this moment to flare up once more, searing you from the inside out with waves of insurmountable pleasure.

Even the burning ache that was starting to take hold is gone, dissipated by the effects of a plant whose sole purpose is apparently to make you come as often as possible.

Finally, you relax enough for Ronan to penetrate you with a sudden release of tension that makes the stars supernova beneath your eyelids and the world flare bright in cobalt ribbons. It’s all you can do to remain still as he presses unerringly into you, each inch swallowed by your desperate body until he can go no further.

You have never felt so whole in your life.

Steel fingers claw into your hips and tilt your pelvis further and, shockingly, he is able to seat his cock even more fully within you until the cool flesh of his stomach chills your buttocks. “Oh, you were made to be conquered,” the Accuser chokes out reverently.

You gasp as he grinds against your buttocks, gaining every precious centimeter that he can.

His breath smells like licorice and coriander, spicy and strange where it blows across the side of your face in rhythmic, forceful puffs. Now that you are filled with Ronan’s impressive girth, the blue overlay that has been clouding your senses for solar cycles begins to fade, but not the pleasure.

 

He slams his fists into the hull immediately above where your shoulders rest against the rigid metal sheet. The resulting vibrations resonate in your skull and you take a moment to gawk at the craters enveloping his hands.

With a sharp squeal, Ronan pierces his fingers through the hull fragment and leans back to rest his elbows on your scapulas. It’s not comfortable in the least, but the nectar that clouds your mind doesn’t care to acknowledge such trivialities.

Only now do you realize that you are completely trapped within the cage of Ronan’s thickly built body.

You attempt to protest but choke on a strangled yelp as the Kree pulls his cock mostly out of you then hilts himself in you fully once more with one vicious thrust, testing the security of his hold. Satisfied, he grunts and begins to piston his hips in earnest, as heedless of your comfort as the mating imperative of the nectar.

You hold onto his wrists to brace yourself in a vain attempt to weather the storm of his lust. Frankly, his complete disregard for you as anything other than a hole to be filled is pretty exciting in its own right.

Even if blue fairy lights weren’t invading your thoughts with a fuck-or-die mentality, this is something that you would totally be into.

He repeatedly slams into you as hard and as fast as a freight train and it’s a genuinely amazing thing that the nectar seems to be fortifying your body, because anuses are not made for this.

At all.

Ronan grunts with each impact of his hips against your buttocks, seemingly taking great pleasure in the sharp slap that accompanies each stroke. You rock back and forth violently, certain that if you don’t have whiplash by the time the nectar has what it needs that you’ll at least have some lurid purple bruises on your upper traps and ass. You won’t be walking for _weeks_.

The very thought makes moisture gather in the corner of your mouth and your cock twitch from where it bobs in the open space beneath you, rock solid but untouched.

Ronan doesn’t strike you as a considerate reach-around kind of guy anyways.

As if sensing that you are entirely too cogent, Ronan wrenches his fingers from his metal handholds and pulls you back by the neck, forcing your back to arch almost unnaturally. Your cheeks are flushed, sweat beading across your brow despite the chill of him, and your mouth hangs open, jaw lax. Breathing is difficult like this, but you manage to take small wheezing gasps.

“Is that… all… you got?” you are able to force out between breaths.

Really, though, you should know better than to challenge the seven and a half feet tall homicidal Kree warrior who’s hyped up on alien sex pollen.

“Your weak, pathetic form presents no challenge, Terran. I will usher in a new age of Kree conquest on your pitiful mortal body and fill it to its core,” he snarls huskily into your ear.

Blue comet trails streak across your vision with each sibilant word and liquid fire swirls in your loins.

You’ve never been this aroused in your life.

He firmly rubs his free hand from where he has your neck wrapped in a steel grip all the way down to where your abdominals press against the edge of the impromptu table top. As if the rough callouses on his palm weren’t delicious enough, the stiff fabric of his vambrace strap catches on your nipples and makes you moan lewdly. Ronan buries his face in your neck and swears heatedly.

You can feel him tremble from the effort of keeping still to stave off orgasm.

“What’s wrong, sweet-cheeks, can’t keep up?” you ask, laughing breathlessly and purposefully clenching around his behemoth dick.

Your boast is completely empty, though, seeing how as you’ve already spilled against the dusty ground, untouched. Huh, you wonder when that happened. It’s only thanks to the nectar that is preternaturally increasing your stamina and drive that you are apparently able to recover so quickly.

His answering roar resonates through your chest as he wrenches you up by the throat and lifts your feet clear off of the ground. Well, it appears as if your mouth has finally gotten you killed; goodbye cruel universe.

But, you only hang suspended for a handful of seconds, erect dick bobbing happily in space, before Ronan unceremoniously drops you. You land on your back with a grunt and slide a couple of inches across the desiccated ground, finally pushing up onto your elbows when you come to a stop.

“Dick move, man,” you mutter, voice pained. He does not deign to respond, instead stalking towards you predaciously. His lithe, muscular body coils into a sensuous S-curve with each step as he calmly bears down upon you, expression blank.

Your stomach drops and the slow burn in your viscera spreads as adrenaline floods you once more.

You take a moment to appreciate the view from where you lay sprawled upon the ground, nude with your legs spread wide and stained with his fluids. It’s almost amusing how the Kree is still mostly dressed in his ceremonial armor, pristine blue skin shining like a beacon where his chest, stomach and loins remain uncovered.

Likewise, Ronan’s eyes scan slowly down your body and linger at the sight of how completely debauched you are. His gaze traces migrant drops of sweat as they drip down the cleft of your pectorals and into the furrow of your abdominal muscles. You absently lick your lips as you watch his cock pulse in response.

From now on, you are going to make a point of falling on top of every plant in the galaxy if this is what it leads to.

Ronan steps between your legs and drops to his knees heavily, wrenching you out of your asinine thoughts. His breaths are labored with arousal and you happily accede when he looms over you and all but devours your lips in a voracious kiss.

His tongue presses into your mouth as if he is breaking through a battle line, then proceeds to dominate every centimeter of your teeth and tongue. You’ve never been so wholly consumed before. Just when you think that there is not enough air in your lungs to survive his passions, the Kree leans back and licks the saliva from his lips.

You gasp and try to pull him closer, to regain the bruising power of him on your lips, but he remains staunchly immune to your struggles and instead leans back and hooks his hands beneath your knees. You have no warning as he wrenches your legs back and plows them into your chest, using his weight advantage to drive you down into the dirt.

“Stay,” he commands, as if you have it in your mind to do anything else.

Gripping your hips tightly, he lifts your buttocks onto his muscular thighs and enters you once more without preamble.

You gasp and arch at the unexpectedly fast penetration, the sharp burn of being stretched around his substantial girth pounding through your loins too quickly for the nectar to moderate. “A little warning next time,” you squeak, voice constricted by an amalgamation of pain, pleasure, and anticipation.

“My apologies, Quill,” Ronan states, entirely unrepentant as he smirks down at you. And Hela take you if that malicious little smile isn’t the scariest damn thing that you have ever seen.

But, you have no time to contemplate the overwhelming repercussions of Ronan’s humor.

He brusquely wrenches your legs up over his shoulders, the armor plates cutting into the backs of your calves uncomfortably, and drives even further into you. Your shoulders ache from the force of your combined weight, but you take it without complaint.

The lurid slap of your conjoined bodies as Ronan establishes a punishing rhythm with his pistoning hips resounds loudly in the still air. You can feel his pleasure course through your loins as if it is your own. The tight, hot clench of your body around his behemoth cock echoes within your flesh such that you can’t parse out where he ends and you begin.

He takes his pleasure from you without pause or consideration, and that thought alone makes you pray for release.

You have already come close to falling off of the precipice so many times now that the frustration is consuming you. You futilely claw at the metal plates on Ronan’s broad shoulders and moan until your stomach aches with it.

Your voice cracks and devolves into a broken sob.

Ronan’s rough, calloused hand cards painfully through your tangled hair and the other slides around your trembling thighs to take hold of your throbbing erection. His touch is agony and overwhelming pleasure all rolled into one blue-tinged bundle of need.

His rhythm begins to slow and you can tell that he’s just as close as you are.

“Come for me, Starlord,” the Accuser orders as his lips press softly against your ear, purposefully using your self-given title. A shiver runs down your spine at the press of him against you and gooseflesh rises in a cascade down your neck where the chill of his breath kisses your skin. He gives your dick several firm strokes in quick succession, heedless of the abrasiveness of the vambrace strap across his palm.

It’s pain that cavorts at the edge of pleasure.

You can’t help the moan that is wrenched from you and suddenly you bear down on his cock with all the force you can muster. Above you, Ronan emits a choked grunt and tenses as he plunges twice more.

His eyes flutter and lips silently form the syllables of your name as he prepares to come, muscles locking tightly. This is it, you think, the culmination of your flora-induced fuck-fest.

Ronan throws his head back and roars the pleasure of his release skyward so explosively that it echoes across the destroyed remains of the _Dark Aster_.

Cock pulsing steadily, he lets loose such a torrent of ejaculate that it forces its way past his substantial girth and flows down the curve of your buttocks only to be consumed by the parched soil beneath you.

Finally, the nectar’s terms are satisfied and it allows you your own screaming orgasm. Every muscle in your body locks tight. The building pressure behind your eyes makes the world around you explode in a series of luminescent blue sparks.

You think perhaps that this is the end, that this tidal wave of pleasure cresting against your ribcage and down into your groin will utterly destroy you. But then it changes course and wrenches such a deluge of ejaculate from you that the stuff flows across your stomach and dribbles down your sides in one hot flood. Ronan is gracious enough to brace you and continues to stroke you through your release as you writhe and pant, studying your rapturous expression intently.

Satiated, you both pause to catch your breath. Ronan collapses against you bonelessly, supported by your thighs where you are still folded in half beneath him. Now that the nectar has released its stranglehold on your lust, you can start to feel the burning ache of exertion. Plus, Ronan is ridiculously heavy.

You tell him as much and he instead pulls you with him into side-lying, rearranging your limbs as if they have offended him, but stubbornly remaining embedded within you. The squeal of his armor sliding against stone causes you to clench your teeth.

“So, can I get your com number?” you ask with a sly grin once you are no longer winded. The narrow-eyed scowl that he shoots at you even looks imposing when he’s languorously sprawling on the rough-hewn ground.

“No,” he states with finality.

He absently wipes the ejaculate from his hand onto your shirt and shifts his hips so that his softening cock slips out of you reluctantly. There is a moment where the tight ring of your anus presents resistance to his widely flared glans, but it ultimately disengages with a muffled pop.

He perfunctorily tucks himself into his come-stained breeches, lacing them back up one-handed, while you continue to rest your head on his massive bicep and calm the pounding of your heart. It’s almost comfortable like this, lying boneless and still in the blinding sunlight, bare from the waist down but too exhausted to do anything about it. Ronan prods you roughly and moves to sit up.

Finally coming down from your endorphin high, you rise up with him and dare to lean your face against Ronan’s sweat-slick side. He glares down at you, but otherwise makes no attempt to dissuade your touch. You scan your surroundings to make certain that the nectar is truly satisfied, that you are no longer watching the world through a barrage of blue disco lights. It’s only then that you realize the thrumming tension beneath your cheek.

Well, fuck.

You wrench your head upright and look around in abject horror at the multitudinous faces staring back at you. Holy…shit.

Ronan’s wide-eyed expression mirrors your own.

The fact that there was an audience was completely lost on the both of you while you were in locked in your shared nectar-induced sex haze.

You notice Rocket staring on from a few feet away, jaw slack and head canted. “I will never be able to un-see this,” he remarks incredulously, loudly enough for you to hear.

You should have just let Xandar burn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ronan's a screamer. :D
> 
> Well, that's the end of that. Chapter four will consist of the chapter illustrations once they are all completed.


End file.
